


Reichenbach Diversion

by Kaworu



Series: Family Matters -Reichenbach Ark- [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU to both fandoms, Attempts at humour, Family, Gen, M/M, Mostly Gen, Pre-Romance, Reichenbach Fix-It, Wholock, obligatory Reichenbach angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 21:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaworu/pseuds/Kaworu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another look at how Sherlock might have faked his own death and who could have helped him. What really happened on the roof of St.Bart's? And what don't we know about Sherlock's family?</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>"Something I need to do," Sherlock said, and practically stormed away, brushing off John's offer of help.</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>As soon as he rounded a corner, Sherlock fished his phone out of a coat pocket and dialled a number he knew by heart, waiting impatiently for the call to be picked up, hailing a taxi at the same time.</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>"Hello?" a voice said on the other side.</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <i>"Mummy, I need help."</i></p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sorry, I'm terrible at summaries. Rated T to be safe, but there's nothing too questionable so far. Aside from the author's sanity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reichenbach Diversion

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank my betas: Lahtili and CrackshotKate.
> 
> A special enormous thank you to CrackshotKate for her beta and very precise comments. You've helped a lot more than you think, and I hope to keep working with you.
> 
> ~*~*~
> 
> This chapter is heavily based on Reichenbach Fall, and parts of it were taken directly from the episode. I used Ariane DeVere's transcript which can be found here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/30648.html
> 
> Happy Holidays everyone!

"I'm The Storyteller."

The words echoed in Sherlock's head, ideas forming, pieces of a puzzle slipping into place. It was genius, really. Make his whole life into a story and tell it like a fairytale, then change a few lines, and a fairytale becomes a B-class horror film complete with a comic book villain, so evil that no one will doubt his complete and utter evilness, no one will think twice before putting another label. And every fairytale needs a hero, a knight in shiny armour or, in this case, a Jeanne d'Arc with a sharp and pointy pen who will bring the evil mastermind's fall. Fall... 

Sherlock stopped for a moment, his vision swimming. A swarm of images came out of nowhere -- a morning newspaper, bold, bright letters announcing the shocking truth about a certain 'fake', then faces, just a few, looking at a coffin as it is lowered into the waiting hole in the ground, and finally the fall, arms spread like wings, long dark coattails fluttering in the air. It was him, obviously, his own hair and coat and scarf, but Sherlock was watching it from a distance, like he was standing on the roof and watching himself fall.

The vision was gone in less than a second, but Sherlock took a few more to collect himself. Here he was, on the street in front of Kitty Riley's flat, ranting about Moriarty. What was he saying...? Oh, yes--

"Sherlock?"

John. He sounded worried, of course he was. John was always worried, and this time, for once, he had a perfectly valid reason. Still, there was nothing John could help him with, at least not at the moment.

"Something I need to do," he said, and practically stormed away, brushing off John's offer of help.

As soon as he rounded a corner, Sherlock fished his phone out of a coat pocket and dialled a number he knew by heart, waiting impatiently for the call to be picked up, hailing a taxi at the same time.

"Hello?" a voice said on the other side.

"Mummy, I need help."

A short pause, and then a barely audible sigh. "What did you do this time?" The voice was calm, the person obviously used to being called in the middle of the night, but stern, demanding answers. There was no time for that now.

"Call Dad, I'll be there in fifteen minutes, we'll talk then."

Another sigh, and then, "Okay, calling him now, see you."

*~*~*

The door was opened a second after Sherlock knocked, confirming Sherlock's suspicions that his Mummy had waited, probably pacing a path into the floor in front of the door. That, and the fact that his Dad still wasn't there.

"Come in," Mummy said, taking a step back so that Sherlock could enter. "Tea?"

Sherlock nodded, aware that he was being watched, examined from head to toe.

"No physical injuries, if that's what you're wondering," he said, hanging his coat carefully on a peg nearest the door. "And no, I haven't been using or dealing with anything extraterrestrial." Sherlock turned to look into clear blue eyes that desperately tried to conceal worry. "You know I'm not lying," he added.

The eyes swept his face for a moment. "I know," Mummy answered, shoulders relaxing slightly. "So..." a hand raked through short dark hair. "Come on, might as well do something useful until your dad gets here."

They settled at a table in the small kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Sherlock was playing with a cup, balancing it on a finger and letting it fall before catching it at the last moment.

"Careful with that," Mummy warned, watching Sherlock from behind a laptop that was sitting on the table.

Sherlock gave an impatient sigh, wriggling on his chair. "Where _is_ Dad anyway? He should have been here before me."

"Must be the Old Girl acting up again," Mummy answered with a shrug. "You know how she is. Anyway, what's there I can't help you with? Or Mycroft."

Sherlock cringed at the mention of his brother's name. He was about to retort about Mycroft's big mouth, but as he looked at his Mummy's face, Sherlock had to stop. Mummy looked hurt. Not obviously so, no tells anyone else would have noticed, but still the look in the clear blue eyes was sad, and small, barely visible wrinkles under them seemed deeper.

"I could have full control over Torchwood 1 with all their facilities in a day or two, you know," Mummy said, quietly.

"I know," Sherlock answered. "But I don't have a day or two, whatever is happening must be finished in less than twenty-four hours, and there is this feeling..." He took a moment to concentrate on it, to understand what exactly this feeling was, and then another one to formulate his answer. "It's not exactly unease, closer to a controlled disturbance in tectonic plates, if timelines could be compared to tectonic plates." Sherlock paused, searching Mummy's face.

There was a slight nod, and Mummy's mouth opened, ready to answer, when the evening's quiet was ripped apart by a screeching noise.

"At last," Sherlock muttered, holding his fringe so the hair wouldn't flap into his eyes in the sudden wind.

"And right on cue," Mummy added over the noise as it was the exact moment the kettle boiled. Then continued quieter as a blue police box finished materialising in the far corner of the kitchen: "What was he always saying? Pop between realities, home in time for tea."

"Did someone say 'tea'?" A dishevelled head popped out of the door followed by a lean body in a brown pinstriped suit. "Hello, Jack." The Doctor made a beeline to the other man who got up from the table to put the tea to steep and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

"Nice to see you, too," Jack replied with a smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please, limit your public displays of affe--" He had to stop, head swimming, another swarm of images swirling in front of his eyes -- newspapers and magazine articles, Moriarty's smirking face, the roof of St.Bart's, and, yes, the fall again. He was still watching from a distance, but now the picture was clearer, and he could hear distinctive smack as the body hit the ground. Sherlock shook his head, vaguely aware of the voices around him.

"Doctor? Doctor, what's wrong?" Mummy sounded worried, the way he always did when something was wrong with Dad.

Sherlock forced his eyes open... and was met with a stunned (and maybe a little scared, Sherlock couldn't not notice, as much as he didn't want to) stare from his Dad's eyes.

"What did you do?" he whispered. His hip was propped against the table, Mummy's arm around his waist, obviously for support instead of affection.

"That's the whole point," Sherlock muttered. He took a deep breath, steeling himself before continuing. "I don't know," he confessed. "To my knowledge, I haven't done anything that could result in... this. Whatever 'this' might be," he finished, looking at his hands that rested on the table.

There was a sigh, and then some shuffling and a chair's legs scraping the floor as his Dad sat down.

"That was... a fixed point in time," he said. "You remember what that is?"

Sherlock nodded. It made sense. It was the same feeling he'd had the first time he had met Moriarty, only this time it was more pronounced, clearer and at the same time murky, like looking into a muddy well. That's why he couldn't pick on it before, couldn't draw parallels. Still... there must have been something he had missed. A tiny detail that would help him out of this ordeal, if not unscathed, then at least...

"Would anyone care to tell me what the hell is going on?" Mummy sounded annoyed, one of his tactics to cover worry, and not the most effective one. "Doctor? Sherlock?"

"Tea, Jack," his Dad answered. "Then we'll figure it all out."

Sherlock looked up in time to see Mummy shaking his head. "And you're not even really English," Mummy muttered, earning himself a glare from Dad.

Sherlock smiled at his parents' antics. If nothing else, his Mummy was good at lightening the atmosphere, and with his teasing the situation didn't look so grave anymore.

"So," Mummy said setting the tea on the table, "what's going on exactly?"

Sherlock took a few seconds to collect his thoughts, sipping his tea. "I'm sure you remember Moriarty," he started, watching both of his parents give nods. "I've been in the middle of a... game with him. At least, he considered it a game, setting a trail of crimes for me to solve, pieces of a puzzle." Sherlock told them about all of the recent cases connected to Moriarty -- his visit to the Tower, the trial, the kidnapping, and then he got to the computer code. "I think he planted it on me during his visit after the trial. It's simple, really, he tapped his fingers -- every beat as a one, every rest as a zero. Binary code."

"Have you tried it?" Mummy asked.

"Why would I...?" Sherlock frowned at him.

"This code. Are you sure it's even a program? Have you tried using it?"

"Of course it's a program!" Sherlock protested. "Why else would he--"

"Then let's try it," Mummy interrupted. "Tap."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow then started tapping on the table.

"At least it's not _that_ rhythm," Mummy said with a lopsided grin, typing on his laptop and earning himself an eye roll from Dad.

"Wait a minute," Dad interrupted after a minute. "I know this. I know what this is!" He snapped his fingers, looking as if he was struggling to remember something, and then he started humming.

"Huh?" Mummy looked at him, confused, but then his eyes flashed with recollection. "Now that you mention it..." he said and started humming along, and in less than a minute both Sherlock's parents were singing semi-tunelessly making dramatic gestures with their hands.

"My parents are overgrown five-year-olds," Sherlock muttered, shaking his head. Which resulted in an assortment of snorts and giggles from said parents until they were bent over the table laughing.

"Sorry," his Dad managed brushing a tear out of a corner of his eye. "Still, Johann. A brilliant man! If a bit boring. We should visit him some time."

"Yes, we should," Mummy agreed with a leer.

"Jack!" There was a warning both in Dad's voice and his raised brow.

"Sorry," Mummy answered with a snort.

"Could we, please, get back to the problem at hand?" Sherlock asked, his patience wearing thin.

"Sorry," his Dad said, turning his attention to Sherlock with the last giggle.

Mummy cleared his throat trying to look serious, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes, waiting a few more seconds until his parents finally settled.

"So, if that wasn't the code, then how...?" Sherlock stopped, thinking.

"You know, maybe the easiest answer is the right one," his Mummy said.

"Which would be?" Sherlock prompted.

"How do you get into a closed event?" Mummy asked. "Say, a private party."

Sherlock thought about it, a thousand scenarios going through his head.

"Park the TARDIS in the men's room and have fun?" Dad asked.

Mummy gave him an incredulous look. "I can't believe you two," he said. "You bribe your way in!"

Sherlock's head snapped up at that. "Of course," he said. Another puzzle piece snapped into place, and now the picture looked so much clearer. "He's always had a network, so it would be logical for him to have contacts in all the right places. One phone call, no, one text, and he can get the Crown Jewels, set every prisoner at Pentonville free, terrify... Oh, clever! He is so clever, or at least he thinks he is. He should have some leverage against me, something to make me... Oh." Sherlock stopped abruptly, wide eyes looking around without seeing anything. A shiver ran down his spine.

He missed his parents exchanging a look.

"Sherlock?" Mummy asked carefully. "Care to share your thoughts with the rest of the class?"

"John's in danger," Sherlock said locking his gaze with his Mummy's.

"Immediate?" Mummy asked, face serious, body tense and ready to jump out of his chair and run at the first prompt.

"No, at least I don't think so," Sherlock answered noticing both his parents relax slightly. "Moriarty would need some leverage against me, something that would make me obey him, be a... puppet in his story. And he would choose something he is most familiar with, taking control of me by threatening someone he is sure I care about. That was how he manipulated the jury, that's how he does everything, and given his conviction that I am 'ordinary' and 'boring', he would make sure to find my pressure point that he'll use as the culmination of his game. The final proof that I was just like everyone else."

"Who else?" It was his Dad, his voice quiet and level. So was his face except barely visible tightening around his jaw.

Sherlock thought about it. It wasn't really the question of who he cared about, if he ever admitted that he cared about anyone at all, it was the question of who Moriarty thought he cared about. Sherlock tried looking at his own life through Moriarty's eyes. Still, not enough information. Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket and started typing.

"Sherlock?" Mummy asked. "Who are you texting?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock answered. "I have to know how much he told Moriarty about me."

"My!? He wouldn't..." Mummy stopped at Sherlock's glare.

"He would and he did," Sherlock said, waiting for Mycroft's reply. "He caught Moriarty a few months ago, and I bet it was the only way to make him talk." His phone beeped at that moment, and Sherlock cringed at the text. "And apparently Mycroft's mouth is bigger than his backside," he muttered, typing exactly that and sending it back to his brother.

"So, who else is it?" his Dad asked, still trying to be the calmest presence in the room and putting a hand on Mummy's shoulder when he was about to say something that he would, no doubt, regret later.

"Mrs.Hudson seems the most obvious, also Lestrade, but his injury or death would hurt Mycroft a lot more than it would me, which makes Mycroft himself relatively safe but puts Lestrade in double danger if Moriarty decides to retaliate against my dear brother." Sherlock stopped for a moment, thinking.

"And if Mycroft wasn't Moriarty's only source of information?" his Dad asked, voicing Sherlock's own thoughts. But who else could have his personal information _and_ be related to Moriarty? Molly? She hardly knew anything, which was obvious. Who else? There wasn't anyone Sherlock could think of, but there could always be something, or rather someone in this case, that he could have missed.

"You two, of course, but I'm sure Moriarty doesn't know about you," Sherlock said, slowly, still thinking. "Molly, maybe, but Moriarty probably sees her as a puppet, something similar to his own tools."

"Which she's not," his Dad said. It wasn't voiced as a question, but the inquiry was clear enough.

"She might have been once, but... no, she's not," Sherlock answered.

"Good," his Dad said, and there was so much more in this one short word than its dictionary meaning. "Now, not to be the voice of reason," he continued earning himself a snicker from Mummy, "but the one in most danger now is you, Sherlock." He gave Sherlock a meaningful look. "I presume you've seen visions of what is going to happen. What was in them?"

Sherlock concentrated for a moment, remembering every detail, every word he'd seen in the newspapers, every hair on the man he'd seen falling to his death. Then he told it. Cold and clinical, distancing himself from the situation. After all, he'd seen it from the outside, it hadn't actually been _him_ stepping from the roof of St.Bart's.

It was as if he returned to his old self, before he'd met John -- an emotionless observer -- and it was easy, like wearing an old pair of shoes, but at the same time there was a nagging feeling, throbbing, like the shoes have gotten smaller while he hadn't been looking.

When he finally finished, his Dad was deep in thought, an elbow propped on the table and his chin resting on the fist. And Mummy had a speculative look in his eyes.

"Sherlock..." Mummy started then cleared his throat. "Are you _sure_ it was you, you know..." He made a vague gesture with his hand.

"It looked exactly like me, so, yes, I'm sure," Sherlock answered.

There was a moment of silence, then Mummy spoke again. "But did it... feel like it was you?" he asked.

His Dad raised his head from the fist and looked at Mummy, his eyes narrowing.

"I'm not sure if I was supposed to feel anything," Sherlock said and looked at his Dad for confirmation of both his own words and Mummy's suggestion.

"No, you weren't supposed to feel anything," his Dad answered, still looking at Mummy. "In fact, you're not supposed to even see your own personal timeline. Jack?" he asked. "Did you have an idea?"

"Well, not exactly," Mummy started. "There just was this incident when I was still a time agent..." Which was followed by a story of a young Mummy with considerably less brains who thought it was a good idea to marry the city chief's daughter while on mission on a faraway planet. And then a son of a chief from the neighbouring town. And then another boy and three more girls.... Until one fated night during a big party with a lot of local alcohol all of his 'harem' met each other. So, Mummy was left with a choice either to suffer neutering, local punishment for infidelity, or fake his own death. By the end of his colourful tale Dad was shaking with laughter, face buried in his hands, and Sherlock couldn't stop giggling. "Hey! It wasn't funny when it was happening," Mummy complained, but he himself wore a big grin.

"So I was thinking..." Mummy said after a minute when all of the giggles and snickers died away. "Why don't we just," he made a swishing gesture, "switch it?"

Dad stared at him. "Jack?"

"I mean, what other choice do we have?" Mummy asked. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment, weighting the options. "You're right," he said finally. "What other choice do we have?"

~*~*~

Sherlock stepped out of the TARDIS and barely avoided a falling mop. There was clatter as the offending object hit the TARDIS door. They just had to land in a cupboard, didn't they? The day was getting better by the minute, he thought sarcastically.

_"There's, ah, just one problem," Sherlock remembered his Dad saying._

_They had been discussing his plan, their plan, Sherlock corrected himself, when Sherlock suggested going back a day, buy them some more time._

_"A teeny-tiny,_ very _small problem," Dad had said, his eyes shifting. "I think we're locked in."_

_"What do you mean, 'locked in'?" Sherlock had asked._

_"Locked in," his Dad had repeated. "We can't go back in time, or forth for that matter, can't even enter the vortex."_

_"Brilliant," Sherlock had muttered._

Still, changes had been made, and now Sherlock headed to the lab on the second floor.

The lights were on, meaning Molly was still working. So late at night. Sherlock smiled. Molly was one of the very few people he knew who could work almost as much as him, though it wasn't as easy for her. Lines of exhaustion, slight shaking in her hands, Sherlock always noticed them when he went home after spending the night at the morgue dissecting bodies, taking tissue samples, experimenting. And Molly never once complained. She tried to drive him out, of course, send him home to sleep, but it was for his benefit, never hers. She would have made a good companion, reliable, and Sherlock considered on several occasions introducing her to his Dad, but time travel would change her, and... only now, and only in his head he could admit that he thought of her as _his_ companion.

The side door opened, and Molly went out looking tired, her shoulders hunched. She sighed heavily. Sherlock waited a few more seconds until she reached the door (Mycroft's voice in his head droning at him about his love of drama), and then he spoke.

"You're wrong, you know," he said.

Molly gasped and jumped, spinning around to face him, a hand coming to her chest.

"You _do_ count," Sherlock continued. "You've _always_ counted and I've always trusted you." He turned to her, taking in her shocked and scared expression. It would be so easy to manipulate her now. A few choice words, and she would follow him to hell, but it wasn't what he was going to do. That would've made him the same as Moriarty, and Sherlock didn't want to choose that path, not after stories he'd heard from his parents about a certain Time Lord and his big ship, and things that didn't actually happen, only they really did.

"But you _were_ right," Sherlock was still talking. And she had been. Molly was more perceptive than she let on, and Sherlock couldn't overlook it. "I'm not okay," he said finally.

"Tell me what's wrong." Molly's very unimpressive attempts to look calm almost made Sherlock smile. The girl didn't have a poker face. Still, the emotion died as soon as he thought about what he was going to do next, what he _had_ to do.

Sherlock took a few steps towards her. "Molly, I think I'm going to die," he said. And it was true in so many ways, if not in the most obvious one. At least he hoped so.

"What do you need?" Molly asked, and there was red around her eyes that were already brighter from excess moisture. No poker face at all. For some reason it only strengthened Sherlock's resolve.

He took a few more small, slow steps as he continued talking. "If I wasn't everything that you think I am," he said, looking straight at her ('genius, real, _human_ ', his mind supplied), "everything that _I_ think I am," he added ('genius, real, right, always right'), "would you still want to help me?" 

Would she? It was more than Moriarty's little game, it was a question of absolute trust. And an open mind.

"What do you need?" she asked again, and Sherlock knew that she'd do it. Whatever he asked, whatever happened around her, however many questions he wouldn't answer, at least not now, she'd be his companion.

"You," he said, answering her question, and that was really it. "Now," he said louder, consciously breaking the moment and making Molly jump again, "I need a body, around my height, approximately the same build, someone that wouldn't be missed. Do you have anyone like that?"

"Um..." Molly looked away, thinking. "A man came in this morning, homeless, but I'm not sure--"

"Good!" Sherlock interrupted her. "Let me see him."

"O-of course, he's in the morgue," she said unnecessarily and went out of the lab leading the way.

~*~*~

The body wasn't perfect -- too thin, a little too tall, and there was a large gash on the man's cheek, but Sherlock didn't expect it to be perfect. It just had to... fit. Which it would.

"Are you coming?" he asked Molly over his shoulder as he carried the body out of the room, dragged really, as it was heavier than it looked.

"Ah, yes. Do you need help with... that?" Molly waved at the body, her hand shaking slightly with nerves.

"Yes, thank you, take his legs, please," Sherlock asked, and then added "And don't ask any questions -- I don't have time for them," before Molly could open her mouth. With that and an audible gulp from Molly they carried the corpse down the stairs.

"Um, where are we going?" Molly asked when they turned into a semi-unused corridor, lights flickering above their heads.

"Told you," Sherlock answered. "No questions."

Molly opened her mouth like she was going to say something else, then closed it with a snap. "Okay," she muttered.

Sherlock led them to the store cupboard where TARDIS was parked. Opening the cupboard door with his foot, he still had to put the body down as he turned and took TARDIS key out of a pocket. Which left Molly awkwardly holding onto the corpse's legs.

"Um, is that a hidden room?" Molly asked as the cupboard filled with light from the open door. "Sorry," she said when Sherlock glared at her.

"Now, please...." Sherlock nodded at the entrance, and together they dragged the body in only to stop when Molly dropped the legs, slack-jawed.

"Ah, yes," Sherlock said, almost as an afterthought. "No, it's not a part of the building you didn't know about, and, yes, it's bigger on the inside. Now, if you don't mind, I need this body in the lab." Sherlock nodded in the general direction of the corridor to the side of the control room.

"Sherlock, is that you?" his Mummy called, and a moment later he was in the room, heading towards Sherlock and Molly.

"Where's Dad?" Sherlock asked.

"In the lab."

"And you're not."

"I was banned," Mummy said with a grin. "For... 'meddling'."

"Of course." Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"Manners, young man!" Mummy scolded, but he was still grinning. Then his eyes landed on Molly. "And who do we have here? Aren't you going to introduce us, Sherlock?" He winked at Molly, making her blush.

"Molly, Captain Jack Harkness. Mummy, Molly," Sherlock introduced. "Now, lab, please?"

"Go on," Mummy said, looking at Molly. "I'm banned, remember?" He turned to grin at Sherlock then his attention was on Molly again. "Very nice to meet you," he said, taking her hand and kissing it.

Sherlock shook his head and heaved the body to drag it to the lab. When he was manoeuvring it past Molly, he stopped to tell her in a voice that was quiet but conveniently loud enough for his Mummy to hear every word: "Don't even think of it. He's a chronic flirt, but he doesn't cheat anymore." And with that he was gone.

"So, ah..." Molly said intelligently when Sherlock was out of earshot. She looked at the man in front of her, smiling warmly with a twinkle in his clear blue eyes. "Captain Harkness...."

"Jack, please," he corrected.

"Jack." She felt her cheeks heating under his gaze. "So, erm... you and Sherlock...." She stopped, looking at her hands.

"Me and-- What? No, no, no." Jack gave a small laugh.

"Oh. Well, I thought...."

"No, we're not. I'm his mummy," Jack stated proudly, and Molly blinked in confusion. "You see, our family's a bit complicated. Do you want to hear about it?"

Molly nodded eagerly in response. "Yes, please," she added with a nervous smile.

"So then. Where should I start...."

~*~*~

Sherlock was sitting on the floor of the lab bouncing a ball off available surfaces. That was why he hadn't introduced Molly to his parents before. She just... blended in, catching on to bits and pieces of science that would normally be far beyond her, perfectly in synch with his Dad as she was used to being ordered around. In the end they just kicked Sherlock out (after he tried to 'salvage' some of the materials for later use in his own experiments), and so he was sitting here, waiting for John. Might as well keep an eye on one of his 'pressure points' and make sure John didn't use his admittedly not as tiny as Sherlock had first thought brain for something unnecessary and inappropriately dangerous like uncovering Moriarty's plan and trying to stop him on his own.

"Got your message," John's voice brought Sherlock out of his thoughts.

Sherlock bounced his ball off a cupboard one last time then held it, preparing his speech. He had to divert John's attention, make him concentrate on something safe. Something like the non-existent computer code.

"The computer code is key to this," he said, exactly the same way he had practiced it in his head. "If we find it, we can use it -- beat Moriarty at his own game." The words flowed naturally -- reasonably rush, confident, and the use of 'we' invited John to take on the puzzle.

"What d'you mean, 'use it'?" John asked, and Sherlock stifled a sigh. For all the times for John not to keep up. Still, expected, so Sherlock elaborated.

"He used it to create a false identity, so we can use it to break into the records and destroy Richard Brook," Sherlock said.

"And bring back Jim Moriarty again," John finished for him. Oh, finally. Now, press a little further... Sherlock stood up, continued talking.

"Somewhere in 221B, somewhere – on the day of the verdict – he left it hidden." 

"Uh-huh," John answered.

That would make John concentrate on the flat. And now, one more little diversion... Sherlock turned to the workbench, putting his hands on it, and smiled internally when John did the same.

"What did he touch?" John asked, and it was a good start.

"An apple. Nothing else." Sherlock drummed his fingers on the bench.

"Did he write anything down?"

"No."

John looked deep in thought as he mimicked Sherlock's drumming, and Sherlock mentally congratulated himself (and John on being less thick than others), but a moment later John turned around and walked across the lab. Sherlock drummed his fingers again, wishing he could stuff an image of binary code coming from under his fingers into John's head. _John, please, do keep up!_ Still, John looked occupied enough, so it had to do. For now.

Sherlock's pocket vibrated, and he looked at John, making sure he didn't notice, then read the text. There was a single word:

**Ready**

So, it was time. Sherlock typed his message to Moriarty:

**Come and play.  
** Bart’s Hospital rooftop.  
SH 

Then added, as if in afterthought:

**PS. Got something  
** of yours you might  
want back. 

Let Moriarty think he was still hung-up on the non-existent code.

~*~*~

Several hours have passed, and Sherlock was desperately trying not to bang his head on the nearest flat surface from boredom. He's always hated this part. Waiting. Doing nothing and just waiting for something to happen. Sherlock was sure that it was exactly why Moriarty hadn't rushed to St.Bart's as soon as he got Sherlock's message. That or his phone was off, or the maniac needed his beauty sleep, Sherlock thought with an internal sneer. Still, he was going to act soon, and John needed to be away. As touching as it was to see John defend him, Sherlock didn't want him in any more danger than absolutely necessary, and John's heroism would have very drastic consequences. Sherlock typed a short message to his mummy, and a few moments later John's phone rang.

John lifted his head tiredly from his arms and groaned before answering. Sherlock watched as his friend went from annoyance at being woken up at an ungodly hour to worry to outright panic. He could also imagine his Dad's frown as he had to lie about an elderly lady being shot. Mummy would've been better at this, but they had to opt him out because of the accent.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked when John stopped talking.

"Paramedics," John answered. "Mrs Hudson – she’s been shot."

"What? How?" Sherlock's voice sounded a little flat to himself, but he hoped John wouldn't choose this moment to be perceptive. And this time he didn't surprise Sherlock.

"Well, probably one of the killers you managed to attract," John continued in a frantic tone. "Jesus. _Jesus._ She’s dying, Sherlock." He turned to the door. "Let’s go."

Well, if he was going to play it flat....

"You go. I'm busy," Sherlock said with studied indifference.

John turned around at that, and he looked enraged.

"Busy?" he said in a mix of profound anger and disbelief.

"Thinking. I need to think." Sherlock didn't look at John, he didn't have to to know his expression, and he didn't want to, because he didn't want to see that expression turned on him. Something nagged at Sherlock, not surprisingly in his Dad's voice, that he always hurt people he cared about, but what other choice did he have? Let John get himself killed? Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek. It wasn't an option.

"You need to ...?" John stopped in obvious shock. "Doesn’t she mean anything to you?" he raged. "You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her."

Which was true, they both knew it, but it was all the more reason not to show concern now, all the more reason to push John away.

"She’s my landlady," Sherlock said with a shrug, and he hoped his voice didn't sound as strained as he felt.

Apparently it didn't.

"She’s dying," John said in a furious whisper. "You _machine_."

That hurt. That hurt a lot more than Sherlock thought it would. He'd always thought his rationality and control over his own emotions were his strongest traits, but with John looking at him like that....

"Sod this. Sod this," John continued before heading to the door.

And that hurt, too. John's disappointment. Of course, Sherlock had never even pretended to be a caring and considerate friend, but at this moment he wanted to grab John's shoulders and shake him, make him understand that Sherlock was doing it for John's own safety. Still, that would defeat the purpose of the whole spectacle, so Sherlock just gritted his teeth looking into middle distance.

"You stay here if you want, on your own," John threw over his shoulder.

"Alone is what I have. Alone protects me," Sherlock answered mechanically, because that was what he was supposed to say, wasn't he?

John whirled on him. "No. _Friends_ protect people," he said angrily and stormed out.

Sherlock watched him go. _Caring is not an advantage,_ his mind supplied in Mycroft's voice. Of course it wasn't. Caring about John's feelings now, about his view of Sherlock would get John killed. And thinking about John at all.... Sherlock could just disappear, leave it all behind. Wait till the block lifted, and then go travelling with his parents. It would have been so much easier. But for some reason Sherlock couldn't make that choice.

Sherlock's phone beeped, and he looked at the message.

**I’m waiting...  
JM**

So, the game was on. Sherlock took his time getting up and buttoning his jacket, looking for his coat, gathering his thoughts, and then left the room.

"That was harsh," his Mummy's voice stopped him. He was standing just outside the lab leaning against the doorpost, and Sherlock had to concentrate to see him clearly. Sherlock's eyes kept shifting sideways, his mind didn't want to accept that Mummy was there, but soon the feeling was gone.

"I see the perception filter is working," Sherlock said more to change the subject than to state the obvious.

Mummy shrugged. "Don't see why it shouldn't," he said. "So what now? No changes?"

"None. Let's go to the roof."

~*~*~

Sherlock opened the door to the roof and held it while his parents carried the body out, because perception field or not, doors opening and closing without anyone coming in or out would alert anyone.

His Mummy huffed. "It's just too creepy," he muttered, and Dad hummed in agreement.

Sherlock shared the sentiment, because there, on the floor, he could see himself -- same face, same clothes, same hair. The difference in height wouldn't be too noticeable at the right angle, and Sherlock knew who would be doing autopsy, so all of the papers would state exactly what he wanted.

Tearing his eyes away from his double, Sherlock looked around until he spotted Moriarty sitting on the ledge. As soon as Sherlock approached, Moriarty started talking. Sherlock tuned him out, searching his surroundings. He'd done some research before, of course -- all possible escape routes, all places where a sniper could hide, but now he took in the details. That window was open when a few hours earlier it hadn't been. That point in the building opposite looked a lot more convenient than it had when it was dark. Also, Sherlock's own movements kept Moriarty's attention firmly on him so his parents could sneak closer and take their position near the ledge.

Sherlock stopped, looking at Moriarty now.

"...And you know what? In the end it was easy," Moriarty was saying.

Sherlock stopped, folding hands behind his back. So far everything was going according to plan.

"It was easy. Now I’ve got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out _you’re_ ordinary just like all of them," Moriarty continued quietly with a disappointed look before lowering his head to rub his face. Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes at the show.

"Ah, well," Moriarty said in a sing-song voice before getting up to pace around Sherlock. "Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?"

"Richard Brook," Sherlock said continuing to play his role.

"Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do," Moriarty answered, and that was exactly what he was supposed to say. It was disconcerting how smoothly everything was going.

"Of course," Sherlock said. Still, he couldn't shake a feeling that something was... wrong.

"'Attaboy." Moriarty sounded too satisfied with his answer.

"Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach – the case that made my name." Which was an obvious answer, something Sherlock played and replayed over and over again in his head. And it was something too much like Moriarty. So much in character that there should have been something behind it, another layer of the plot.

"Just tryin’ to have some fun," Moriarty said cheerfully, and that confirmed Sherlock's thoughts. There was something that he'd missed, something big enough that Moriarty was already celebrating his victory. Still... it wasn't the end of their game.

Sherlock drummed his fingers behind his back, laying out his own trap.

"Good. You got that too," Moriarty commented, and he still looked too self-satisfied.

There certainly was something Sherlock had missed, and he was going over their conversation, over and over, analysing every word as he mechanically recited his role, told Moriarty what he wanted to hear.

"I told all my clients: last one to Sherlock is a sissy." And it was the right response, but at the same time it was wrong. It was right, because Moriarty admitted his scheme and the fact that Sherlock got it right, but there was no code. Moriarty should have been gloating about Sherlock's stupidity. So either he knew about Sherlock's double bluff, or.... There had to be something else. Sherlock decided to push it.

"Yes, but now that it’s up here, I can use it to alter all the records," he said, watching Moriarty's reaction. There was none, so he pushed even further. "I can kill Rich Brook and bring back Jim Moriarty."

Moriarty looked at him for a moment then turned away burying his head in his hands. "No, no, no, no, no, this is too easy. This is too easy!" He lowered his hands and looked at Sherlock. "There _is_ no key, DOOFUS!" He shouted the last word into Sherlock's face.

Which confirmed that Moriarty expected him to see past the fake code, but what was his real plan? Sherlock dissected every phrase they've exchanged so far in his head as Moriarty continued talking. Searching for keywords, hidden meaning, tells... His body continued to act, play the role, he replied something to Moriarty, and only caught the end of his reply.

"...thank you, Johann Sebastian Bach."

"Then how did..." he started saying because he was expected to say something.

"Then how did I break into the Bank, to the Tower, to the Prison?" Moriarty interrupted him. "Daylight robbery! All it takes is some willing participants."

Of course. It was always about people, wasn't it? Every scheme Moriarty had shown him so far was about people -- manipulating them, using them, watching their reactions. In an ironic, twisted way Moriarty's fascination with people was very similar to Sherlock's experiments, only Sherlock preferred inanimate subjects.

And now Moriarty wanted Sherlock’s entire world as his petri dish.

Sherlock's eyes landed on his parents. He'd almost forgotten they were there; crouched near the ledge, ready to act as soon as he gave a signal.

A signal. So that was it. But what could it...? Sherlock stopped as his Dad glared at him. Ah, yes. Moriarty had stopped talking. What was he saying? 'Do it'?

"Do it? Do – do what?" Sherlock asked, and then he finally got it. "Yes, of course. My suicide." It was 'the final problem' Moriarty had been talking about, but it wasn't all of it. It was Sherlock’s entire world Moriarty wanted to destroy, not just Sherlock himself, and as long as there was a single person who would believe in Sherlock, a single person who would fight for his memory, Moriarty couldn't say that he'd won.

"'Genius detective proved to be a fraud.' I read it in the paper, so it must be true," Moriarty taunted. "I love newspapers. Fairy tales."

Of course, it was all a story for Moriarty. A fairy tale. But there had to be a way to change the ending. If not for Sherlock then at least for John. Lestrade would be fine as long as Mycroft wasn't more of an arse than always, Mrs.Hudson would survive, but John...

"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity," Sherlock said as a last attempt to turn the tables. He knew he could. If not by conventional means then with the use of Torchwood technology. Sherlock looked at his Mummy, trying to convey his thoughts.

"Oh, just kill yourself. It’s a lot less effort," Moriarty answered. "Go on. For me."

_For him?_ Sherlock saw red. He grabbed the front of Moriarty's coat and spun him around just as Moriarty squealed "Pleeeeeease?", letting him half dangle off the roof. Why would he do anything for this maniac, especially when it meant hurting someone Sherlock cared about?

"You’re insane," Sherlock spat.

"You’re just getting that now?"

Sherlock shoved him further back, almost smiling at Moriarty's whoop, but then Moriarty just held his hands wide.

"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive," Moriarty said. "Your friends will die if you don’t."

And that was like a bucket of cold water dumped on Sherlock's head. It was one thing to let them get hurt, but to let them be killed because of Sherlock's temper.... Sherlock ground his teeth. He still didn't know how much information Moriarty had.

"John," Sherlock said, confirming what he already knew.

"Not just John," Moriarty answered. Then he added in a dramatic whisper: "Everyone."

Which was elusive enough. The fastest way to get answers was to give Moriarty names and watch his reaction, but it was a double-edged sword. Still....

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock said, and Moriarty's crazy smile confirmed that Sherlock's landlady was on his hit list.

"Everyone," Moriarty whispered again, and of course there was at least one more name.

"Lestrade."

"Three bullets; three gunmen; three victims. There’s no stopping them now," Moriarty informed Sherlock happily. So, that was it then. No unexpected extra names, no mention of Sherlock's parents, thankfully. So, they were back to the original plan.

Sherlock pulled Moriarty back up, and he couldn't help shaking him in the process.

"Unless my people see you jump," Moriarty hissed into his ear, unaffected. "You can have me arrested," Moriarty continued taunting, "you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing’s gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die ... unless ..." And it was Sherlock's turn to interrupt.

"Unless I kill myself – complete your story," he said and gave a barely visible nod to the general direction where his parents should have been.

"You’ve gotta admit that’s sexier," Moriarty said, and Sherlock had to hold his breath for a moment so he wouldn't react to a mutter he heard from his Mummy who was close enough now.

"'Sexier', my ass," Mummy had said. "That lunatic has the most disturbing sense of 'sexy' I've ever seen, and that says _a lot_."

Thankfully, he was shushed by Sherlock's Dad.

"And I die in disgrace," Sherlock said, watching from a corner of his eye as his parents dragged the body, his double, to the edge of the roof.

"Of course. That’s the point of this," Moriarty said, oblivious to what was happening around him. It was almost funny. In a vaguely hysteric way. "Oh, you’ve got an audience now. Off you pop," he continued, looking down onto the street. "Go on."

"All set," Mummy whispered from his other side. "Ready when you are."

Sherlock stepped onto the ledge, and Mummy stood right beside him, holding the body upright. Mummy's hand was on a chain that was currently around the corpse's neck, a TARDIS key hanging on it.

"Ready when you are," Mummy repeated.

But Moriarty was still too close, still looking at Sherlock, and he was still talking.

"I told you how this ends," he was saying. "Your death is the only thing that’s gonna call off the killers. I’m certainly not gonna do it," he said at the same time that Jack muttered, "Damn, he's a talker. Doesn't he ever shut up?"

They had to get Moriarty away. One foot would do, just enough so he wouldn't be touching Sherlock.

"Would you give me ... one moment, please; one moment of privacy?" Sherlock asked then turned to look down at Moriarty. "Please?"

"Of course," Moriarty answered and started walking away. Finally. Sherlock prepared to snatch the chain off the double's neck when it hit him. He chuckled and waved to Mummy to move away.

"What is it?" Mummy asked quietly at the same time as Moriarty barked "What?"

"What is it?" Moriarty asked angrily. "What did I miss?"

Sherlock turned to him, smiling. Why hadn't he thought of it before? He jumped off the ledge, strolling closer to Moriarty.

" _You’re_ not going to do it?" he asked, stopping for a moment before he started walking again, making circles around Moriarty, mimicking his earlier behaviour. "So the killers can be called off, then – there’s a recall code or a word or a number. I don’t have to die," he said and stopped in front of Moriarty, adding in a sing-song voice, "if I’ve got you." Then he continued circling Moriarty.

Still, Moriarty didn't look very impressed. "Oh," he said. "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

"Yes. So do you," Sherlock said. Of course, Moriarty didn't know half of what Sherlock could do to him. Even here, on the roof. There were so many manipulation techniques he could use, and even if nothing worked, there was always good old-fashioned torture. Sherlock was sure Mummy would be happy to help him, even if Dad would be against it. But Moriarty didn't know it, which was proven by his next statement.

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King’s horses couldn’t make me do a thing I didn’t want to," he said as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and Sherlock was an idiot not to see it.

_That overconfidence would be the end of him. Literally._ The thought made Sherlock smile a little wider. He got as close to Moriarty as he could without touching him before speaking right into his face: "Yes, but I’m not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do." A noise caught his attention, and Sherlock looked at his parents from a corner of his eye. His Dad was on one knee, holding his head, and Mummy was crouching beside him. Sherlock spoke a little louder, keeping his eyes on Moriarty. "You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

"Doctor? Doctor, what's wrong?"

Sherlock made an effort not to look away again as Moriarty spoke.

"Naah. You talk big. Naah. You’re ordinary."

"I'm fine," his Dad muttered, and Sherlock gave an internal sigh of relief.

"You’re ordinary," Moriarty continued, "you’re on the side of the angels."

"I'm fine, but..." His Dad again. Too loud. Even Moriarty would notice soon, perception filter or-- "Sherlock, you have to stop."

Sherlock frowned at that but continued talking. "Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them," he told Moriarty at the same time as his Dad said: "Whatever you're doing, stop it. You're changing it. You can't change it!"

Sherlock let Moriarty examine him as he listened to his Dad.

"The timeline, the fixed point. You're changing it, and you're not supposed to do it."

"No, you’re not," Moriarty said, obviously liking what he saw on Sherlock's face.

Then his Dad again: "Sherlock, please, stop."

Sherlock kept his eyes on Moriarty, watching as the maniac closed his eyes. He'd deal with the consequences later, but now, if he had a chance to save his friends, save John....

His parents were close enough so Sherlock could hear his Mummy's mutter: "What is he doing? Doctor?"

Then Moriarty again. He had a crazy smile on his face as he said in a half-whisper: "I see. You’re not ordinary."

"I-I don't know, I can't see the details. It doesn't work like that," his Dad's rashed whisper said at the same time.

"No. You’re me," Moriarty was saying with mad delight.

"I could yank him away--"

"You’re me!" Moriarty repeated in a high-pitched voice at the same time as his Dad said, "No, no, no, it might make it worse. We're not supposed to even be here."

" _Thank_ you! Sherlock Holmes." Moriarty made an abrupt movement, stopped himself, and then offered Sherlock his hand.

"What do we do? Think. Think, think!"

Sherlock took Moriarty's hand, shaking it as Moriarty continued in an insane whisper: "Thank you. _Bless_ you."

Sherlock tuned his parents out, watching as Moriarty blinked tears away. The situation felt profoundly wrong, but Sherlock ignored that, too. He was so close....

"As long as I’m alive, you can save your friends," Moriarty was saying, "you’ve got a way out."

And Sherlock was sure he did until he heard his Dad's near scream: "Jack, separate them. Now!"

"Well, good luck with that," Moriarty said, suddenly cheerful, and Sherlock was yanked back by the scruff of his neck just as Moriarty pulled out a gun, shoved it into his mouth and pulled the trigger.

As if in slow motion Moriarty's eyes widened as he looked past Sherlock's shoulder, right at Mummy, and then he fell.

Mummy cursed as he looked at a pool of blood that quickly formed under Moriarty's head. "Now what?" he asked. "Back to the original plan?"

"I'm afraid, not," Dad's quiet voice said behind him, then there was a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock looked at the mad grin frozen on Moriarty's face then raked a hand through his own hair. "No," he said, "as long as Moriarty was alive he was the one to give the order, to recall the assassins. Now that he's dead, the only signal would be my death, my actual death, or rather one of the two signals."

"Okay," Mummy said slowly. "What's the other one?"

"John," Sherlock said and gulped before continuing. "John has to see me jump."

"But... it could still be _that_ ," Mummy nodded in the direction of the double.

"No, John's a medic and a soldier, he'll know the difference--"

"But there should be--"

"Jack." Dad's voice was soft, barely audible, but it made both of them fall silent. "That's what I saw," his Dad continued. "I saw Sherlock..." His hand squeezed Mummy's shoulder as Dad took a deep breath. "I saw Sherlock... step off the roof. Actually make a step. In front of John."

Sherlock took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well then..."

"Wait," Mummy interrupted him. "You..." He turned to look at Dad. "You saw Sherlock jump. Are you _sure_ it was him? Absolutely sure?"

"I..." Dad started, but then his breath hitched and his eyes widened.

"Mummy?" Sherlock asked.

"There's- there's some of the Flesh left," Mummy explained in a rush. "We thought it'd be good to have some left for you to play with later. It's not enough for a full-body cover, just for the head, maybe hands, but no one will look too closely, right?"

Sherlock watched him, his eyes narrowing. "Mummy...," he said but was interrupted by Jack.

"Hey, look at the bright side. For you it's final, for me... you know," he finished with a shrug and a forced smile.

Sherlock took a shaky breath before nodding.

"Doctor?" Mummy asked, looking into his eyes.

"I... don't like it," his Dad said and put a finger against Mummy's lips when he was going to protest. "I really don't, but it might work."

Mummy nodded. "Thank you," he said before turning to walk away.

Sherlock sighed as soon as the door closed behind Mummy and turned to walk to the ledge, but a hand on his wrist stopped him.

"Where do you think you're going?" his Dad asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't worry, I don't have a penchant for useless heroics."

Dad searched his face for a few moments before letting go of his hand.

Sherlock looked at the street below, morning traffic not as heavy yet as it would be in an hour -- people going to work for an early shift, a few clubbers returning home. The picture was almost peaceful. A taxi was coming from the left of the building, and Sherlock tensed until it passed without stopping.

"What is it?" his Dad asked, at his side now, hands in the pockets of his coat.

"Nothing," Sherlock answered and then sighed at Dad's raised brow. "I thought it was John." He nodded in the general direction where the taxi had disappeared behind a corner. "He should be here any minute, it's been more than enough time for him to get to Baker Street, see that Mrs. Hudson is fine and rush back here."

His Dad nodded. "Whatever you have to do," he said, "it's fine. Well," he dragged the word. "Not really fine, but there's no alternative."

"Thanks, Dad," Sherlock muttered. "You are as helpful as always."

"Don't worry," Dad answered with a smile that seemed a little forced. "We'll get through this." He put an arm around Sherlock's shoulders.

A few minutes passed in silence, and both men turned at the sound of a door closing.

"Miss me?" Mummy said with a grin that seemed profoundly wrong on Sherlock's face which was a little... wider than the original.

Sherlock made a face. "Please, at least try to act like me," he said. "Or it wouldn't take an Anderson to see through your disguise."

Mummy looked wounded. "What, you think I can't copy my own son? I've fooled your Dad once, you know. That's how we met, actually." He added the last sentence with a grin.

Sherlock turned in time to see his Dad roll his eyes.

"Well, there's no time to waste," Sherlock said before his parents could get into their usual innuendo-laden bickering.

"Okay, what do we do?" Mummy asked, serious once again.

"First of all, you should change," Sherlock told him, nodding at the double that wore an exact copy of Sherlock's clothing.

Mummy wrinkled his nose but started undressing, and Sherlock turned away, looking at his Dad instead, who was desperately trying not to look over Sherlock's shoulder, his expression slightly disturbed. Sherlock made a conscious effort not to read his Dad's overly expressive face. Which wasn't as hard when he started talking.

"As soon as John is here, I'll call him. It's crucial that he believes it's me, so he has to see me as well as hear my voice. Mummy, you should be on standby."

"Sure thing," Mummy answered appearing at Sherlock's side, already in full attire including the scarf. Sherlock tried not to think where his Mummy learned to dress so fast. 

"Fasten the jacket, please," Sherlock added, looking at the too tight shirt, buttons threatening to snap off from the strain.

"Hey! I know what you're thinking," Mummy muttered, then rolled his shoulders, straightened his back... and his hands flew over the jacket buttons in perfect imitation of Sherlock.

"That's what lack of exercise does to you," Dad said with a grin.

Mummy visibly swallowed an instinctive response and settled on a Sherlock-like icy stare.

"If we could concentrate, please?" Sherlock interrupted before either of his parents could say anything else. "As I was saying..." he stopped, looking down at the street. There was a taxi turning a corner, heading for the hospital. He cursed under his breath, earning himself a glare from his Dad, then started talking at lightning speed. "Dad, drag the body to the morgue and text Molly, she must be ready to get a stretcher to us when necessary. Mummy, the filter." Sherlock moved to stand right in front of him. Mummy took the chain around his neck and in one swift movement took it off over his head and put it on Sherlock.

"Thank you," Sherlock continued. "Now, step onto the ledge and take out your phone," he commanded before taking a step back. He hoped Mummy's acting was good enough to pull all of it off.

Jack did as he was told, hearing shuffling sounds as the Doctor dragged the double away. Jack took a deep breath, calming his nerves. For all of his bravado, dying wasn't getting any easier however many timed he'd done it. Well, dying itself was easy, but whatever came before it.... Being shot, suffocated, cut to bleed out, crushed, and, yes, falling off cliffs and buildings several times. It wasn't pleasant. Still, Jack felt justified every single time he did it for someone else, especially now.

"The phone, please," Sherlock reminded him, now crouched behind the ledge and peeking over it.

Jack let his mind wander as Sherlock dialled a number on his own phone and started talking. The only reason Jack _had_ an actual phone instead of his usual headset was because Sherlock preferred to text, and holographic displays still attracted too much attention. The same went for the Doctor, who now had a phone with him at all times.

Jack snapped himself back to reality, listening to Sherlock and watching John down on the street.

"I... I... I can’t come down, so we’ll... we’ll just have to do it like this," Sherlock was saying, and he sounded nervous. Understandable in the context, but Jack knew he wasn't playing. Which wasn't good.

"An apology. It’s all true," Sherlock continued. "Everything they said about me. I invented Moriarty."

Jack chose this moment to look at Sherlock -- _it'd look natural, right?_ \-- and muttered "Sherlock, calm down. Everything's fine."

Sherlock glared at him, and his eyes were bright. Too bright.

"I’m a fake," Sherlock was still telling John, and his voice was unsteady.

Jack clenched his jaw so he wouldn't jump off the ledge to hug his boy.

"The newspapers were right all along. I want you to tell Lestrade; I want you to tell Mrs Hudson, and Molly... in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes," Sherlock said in a shaky voice, and Jack saw his own worry mirrored on John below, only for different reasons.

Dammit, where was the Doctor? Sherlock was rarely emotional, at least for the last couple decades, but when he was....

"Nobody could be that clever," Sherlock said and gave a not very convincing laugh. Who was the boy trying to fool? He was a wreck, and it was so obvious that he was lying...

"I researched you," Sherlock continued. "Before we met I discovered everything that I could to impress you." He sounded a little calmer, but it was ruined when Sherlock sniffed. "It’s a trick. Just a magic trick," he finished.

Jack started typing a text to the Doctor blindly, his thumb moving awkwardly over the phone still at his ear, when John started walking.

"No, stay _exactly_ where you are," Sherlock commanded, sounding a little panicky to Jack, and Jack raised an arm in a natural continuation of Sherlock's words. "Don’t move," Sherlock warned.

Jack resumed typing frantically and hit the send button just as Sherlock said "Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?" Sherlock sounded like he would break any moment, and Jack could imagine what was going through his head. Some things... maybe even better than Sherlock himself.

"This phone call – it’s, er... it’s my note. It’s what people do, don’t they – leave a note?" There was a few second's pause, and then: "Goodbye, John."

That was Jack's cue. He took a deep breath, calming his nerves, then threw his phone back onto the roof, spread his arms and took a step forward. As he watched the ground getting closer, he thought that he'd definitely have a nice long talk with Sherlock as soon as the things calmed down a little. His youngest was a genius, but in some areas he was worse than a Judoon.

Jack smiled, imagining Sherlock's indignant sputter at the comparison, and with that smile he met the ground. He felt his bones crunching, his skull giving in under the pressure, a broken rib puncturing a lung, and then there it was. The darkness.

~*~*~

Sherlock watched his Mummy fall, unable to tear his eyes from the form that was getting smaller by the second. He could hear a distinctive crack as the body landed on the pavement, and Sherlock's brain automatically supplied him with a list of bones that would be broken or fractured and the full list of possible damage to the internal organs. He felt a shiver go through his whole body and made an effort to look away, and his eyes landed on John, rushing across the street. As if in slow motion he saw a bicycle move towards John, and Sherlock raised a hand as if he could stop it, he had to warn John, but when he opened his mouth, no sound came out of it, stopped by a lump in his throat. It was getting harder to breathe, and Sherlock felt another shiver rake through his body.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder, and Sherlock jumped before he was guided by a pair of familiar hands. His head was tucked in a junction between the other's neck and shoulder, and Sherlock started to relax, inhaling his Dad's scent.

"He's fine," the Doctor murmured, a hand raking through Sherlock's hair, another holding him across the shoulders as they crouched on the roof. "They're going to be fine, both of them," he added and held Sherlock closer as his boy shook, and the Doctor felt a wet track get under his collar.

They sat there for a few minutes, the Doctor rocking softly and rubbing soothing circles on Sherlock's back until Sherlock's breathing evened.

"Better?" the Doctor asked, and Sherlock nodded against his shoulder. "Good." He gave Sherlock's back one last pat. "Can you stand?"

"Of course, I can stand," Sherlock answered with marked indignation, already shrugging out of the Doctor's arms.

The Doctor gave him a critical look. Sherlock was pale to the point where his lips were slightly bluish, and his pupils were so dilated that if the Doctor hadn't known better, he'd drag Sherlock to the TARDIS for a blood test. Still, he was steady when he rose to his feet, and the clipped movements with which Sherlock shook dust off his coat looked more like him than the lost child the Doctor had been holding a few moments before.

"So then," the Doctor said. "Are we going to rescue Jack?" He gave Sherlock a lopsided grin in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"Mummy, yes," Sherlock answered, looking thoughtful for a moment, then he snapped into action. "Come on, we have to get to him before he wakes up," Sherlock threw over his shoulder as he walked towards the door in a fast pace.

The Doctor felt a small, real smile stretch his lips. No matter how tall Sherlock had become, he was still using the same euphemisms as when he'd been a small boy.

"Right," the Doctor muttered and ran after Sherlock.

~*~*~

They kept near the walls as they sneaked into A&E wing, Sherlock leading the way as he was more familiar with St.Bart's.

"That should be it," Sherlock said when they were near one of the doors. The Doctor couldn't see any difference between this particular door and all of the rest, but Sherlock sounded sure.

"Okay then," the Doctor said. "Allons-y!"

They snuck into the room, nearly avoiding a nurse who was carrying a tray to the bed in the centre of the room. The one that Jack was lying on, hooked to a medical ventilator, an elderly doctor by his side. The nurse they nearly bumped into earlier was now watching the monitors. Sherlock moved silently behind the doctor and gave him a quick hit on the head at the same time as the Doctor put his hands on both of the nurse's temples.

"You could at least try to be careful," the Doctor chided as he was putting the nurse into deep sleep and tweaking her memories in the process -- nothing much, she just had to remember that she'd done her job well and nothing extraordinary happened in the process.

Sherlock huffed in response, a phone in his hand.

There was a groan, and both The Doctor and Sherlock turned to the other medic who was slowly opening his eyes. Sherlock was at him in a moment, holding the man down, while the Doctor kneeled in front of them.

"Hold still, please," the Doctor asked, but the man was struggling to get free. At least until his eyes landed on Sherlock.

"What... how?" the man asked, and his momentary freezing was enough for the Doctor.

"I'm sorry," the Doctor whispered as he put him to sleep, tweaking his memories the same way as he'd done with his assistant and then taking an extra moment to examine the human's mind trying to see if Sherlock's earlier blow damaged anything.

"Retcon would've been easier," Sherlock murmured at his side, and the Doctor gave him an exasperated look.

"Don't even start," the Doctor answered pinching the bridge of his nose. "I've had more than enough arguments with Jack about that... poison." It was bad enough that the substance had been invented at all, but his own husband using it freely? Jack of all people should know better with his background, and so should Sherlock. Still, it wasn't the time for that. The Doctor sighed before perching on the edge of the bed. 

"Oh, Jack," he muttered under his breath, watching the other man's still face. "I'm so sorry for what I'm about to do." He stretched to pull the ventilator's tube out of Jack's mouth, careful even when it wasn't strictly needed.

A few minutes passed in awkward silence disturbed only by the uneven beeping of the monitors, the rhythm slowing gradually. The Doctor watched as Sherlock did his best to look like he was fully absorbed by his phone while he himself still sat on the edge of the gurney, his hand raking through Jack's artificially grown curly hair. He was so focused on what he was doing that it took him a minute to notice that the noise from the monitors turned into a steady flat whine. He stretched to turn them off, sighing when the room was silent.

"Where do you think Molly is?" he asked when another minute passed.

"Should be here," Sherlock answered still staring at his phone.

The Doctor wondered what he could be doing with the archaic device. He was about to ask when the door to their room opened.

"Finally," Sherlock muttered.

"Sherlock?" It was Molly's voice, and soon the young woman herself came into view behind another gurney, its contents covered by a sheet. "Um, is anyone there?" Molly asked in an uncertain voice looking around.

"Here," Sherlock answered, and the Doctor watched as Molly's eyes searched the room before slowly focusing on his son. He had to admit that it was impressive, her ability to break through the perception filter so fast. Of course, there was something she desperately wanted to see...

"Oh," Molly said. "I didn't see you. Where's the Doctor?"

He smiled at Molly's earnest expression and hopped off his seat to sneak behind her, winking at Sherlock as he was about to roll his eyes.

"Here!" the Doctor announced cheerfully putting a hand on Molly's shoulder.

Molly nearly leapt to the ceiling with an undignified squeak.

"Very mature, dad," Sherlock commented, and this time he did roll his eyes.

"Sorry," the Doctor said, but he knew that he sounded anything but.

"So, now." Sherlock strolled to the bed to drag the sheet off. Underneath it were two neat stacks of clothing that looked like scrubs. "Acceptable. Dad, we should change."

"Ah, yes," the Doctor answered moving to take one of the stacks.

"Erm, I should..." Molly smiled nervously looking between the two men and the door.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock huffed. "It'd be suspicious if you came out now. Just find something else to look at."

The Doctor elbowed Sherlock with a glare as Molly turned away with an obedient 'okay'.

Molly scanned the room until her eyes landed on the bed in the middle of the room and the man lying on it. She walked closer and reached out tentatively to touch his face. "It's Jack, isn't it?" she asked.

"Who else can it be?" Sherlock's voice sounded from behind her with notes of annoyance at her apparent stupidity.

Molly felt a smile tugging at her lips at the familiarity until she noticed something else. Jack was completely still -- no breathing, no movements of any kind. He looked too much like one of her subjects. She checked his pulse to be sure, but there was none.

"Um, but he's...." She turned to the other two but then quickly averted her eyes blushing at the sight of Sherlock tugging his trousers on.

"He's what?" was the annoyed answer from behind her.

"He's, ah... dead," Molly finished flatly, shifting from foot to foot.

"Tell me something we don't know," was mumbled in response.

"Sherlock, no need to be so rude," the Doctor chided.

"Fine, fine." Sherlock sounded petulant. A sound of a smack, and then Sherlock started talking again in a sickeningly polite tone: "Molly, could you, please, check his wounds?"

"But he's--"

"Molly." The last one sounded like an order.

"Okay, fine." She did as she was told, moving Jack's matted hair aside. There was a large abrasion on his temple, probably from the pavement, and under the torn layer of skin there was... another layer of skin. Molly frowned. She touched the area carefully to make sure, but the result didn't change -- the upper layer peeled away, a little waxy, feeling a lot like the substance she and the Doctor had been working on most of the previous night, and underneath it was regular human skin. Completely unmarred. The substance made sense of course -- how else was Jack supposed to turn into Sherlock? -- but the cushion it provided couldn't possibly prevent Jack's own skin from getting at least bruised. And he _was_ , erm, dead. 

Molly examined the back of his forehead, mostly covered by the matted hair covered in blood that was already mostly crusted, but it was the same there, Jack's own lighter fringe peeking through tears in the substance and Sherlock-like dark curls. "The head seems fine," Molly announced, confused.

"Good," Sherlock answered, still behind her, but his voice sounded a lot closer than before. "The rest?"

"Here, let me help." The Doctor appeared at her side, running his hands along Jack's body. "Seems fine," he announced after a minute.

Sherlock hummed in agreement from the other side of the room, and Molly turned to see him scribbling on a piece of paper.

"Um, so...." Molly looked expectantly between the two men.

"So now we wait," the Doctor told her with a grin.

Just as Molly was about to ask what they were waiting for, Jack bolted upright with a loud gasp. Molly screamed in shock, clutching her heart.

"Hush, don't be so loud. We don't want anyone running in, right?" the Doctor murmured putting a hand on her shoulder.

Molly nodded as she watched, bewildered. Jack was looking around the room blinking as if he'd just woken up.

"What did I miss?" Jack asked finally, a wide grin distorting his Sherlock-like face.

Molly didn't know if she wanted to smile or cringe at the sight. As if feeling her discomfort, Jack turned to her.

"Hey, Molly. Did I startle you? Sorry." Jack beamed at her.

"N-no, no, it's fine," she stuttered, making an attempt to smile back.

"We'll fill you in later, now come on, lie there," the Doctor interrupted, leading Jack to the trolley Molly had brought in earlier.

"Okay, okay. So, Molly, no hard feelings, right?" He winked at her before turning back to the Doctor and giving him a once-over. "Hey, nice get up! Role playing?" He waggled his eyebrows.

"Mummy, do shut up before I throw up," Sherlock muttered from his side of the room. "And while we're wheeling you through the corridors, try not to breathe."

"Okay, I'll try. But then you could have moved me while I was still out."

"Yes, and risk you waking up on the way," was the sarcastic reply.

"Hey, I don't remember raising a smartass!"

"Alright, you two," the Doctor intervened. "You can continue that back in the TARDIS."

~*~*~

Sherlock sighed as soon as they entered the TARDIS. He lifted a hand to remove his coat before he remembered that the coat wasn't there, and looking at his Dad's arm brushing his side awkwardly, Sherlock couldn't help smirking -- apparently his Dad tried to do the same.

"Ah, I'm beat," his Mummy said from the side, his voice followed by a loud pop as he stretched. "I need a shower and then a few hours of rest. What do you say, Doc? Help me remove the rest of this?" He tugged at a loose flake of Flesh at his jaw, half of it already off in tatters.

"You go, I have to--"

"Doc. Rest. Now."

Sherlock cringed at the amount of suggestiveness in his Mummy's voice. "Please, go before the excessive innuendo makes me sick," Sherlock muttered earning himself a light smack to the back of his head.

"Don't get too cheeky, young man," his Mummy said with a put-upon frown.

"Or what?" Sherlock folded arms on his chest. "I'm a little too old to be grounded, not that it had ever worked on me. What are you going to do?"

"This," Mummy answered with a grin as he dipped Dad and gave him a loud smooch to the lips.

Sherlock groaned.

"Jack," Dad reproached, but the effect was ruined by a smile tugging at his lips.

"Which reminds me," Mummy continued. "Sherlock, we're having a serious talk later."

Dad raised a brow looking between the two of them at the same time as Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"I'll tell you later," Mummy told Dad before leading him out of the control room. "And you should rest too," he threw over his shoulder. "Don't even think of going to the lab."

"Or tinkering with controls," his Dad added, turning to give Sherlock a warning look. "And call Mycroft, he must be worried."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock replied, resisting the urge to roll his eyes yet again as his Dad stroked one of the walls, murmuring something.

As soon as his parents were out of sight, Sherlock made a beeline to the control panel.

"Alone at last." He smiled at the gentle nudge at the edge of his consciousness, like a hand ruffling his hair. "Did you miss me too?" He reached out, but as soon as he touched the surface of the controls, an electric current shot through his arm. Not dangerous but sharp enough to sting. "I won't break anything, I promise," Sherlock whined, but the tug at his mind was disapproving. "Traitor," he muttered. A light rustling noise went through the room, and it sounded suspiciously like chuckling. "Fine." Sherlock sighed. "Is there at least any chance you'll let me go to the lab?" The swish that went through his mind was a definite 'no'. Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine," he said again barely resisting the urge to pout.

He stepped off the pedestal intending to go to his room, as he was apparently being treated like a child past his bedtime, as he felt another disapproving nudge at his mind. "What now?" he asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance.

As if on cue, his Mummy's ringtone sounded from the jump seat where he'd thrown their clothes earlier.

Sherlock considered for a moment whether he should pick up, but then, in a show of petulance, stomped out of the room, ignoring both the annoyingly chipper ringtone and the feeling of all of the walls glaring at his back. Let Mycroft stew for a bit, he thought. And maybe if he promised to call him back later, he'd be let into one of the labs.

**Author's Note:**

> It was supposed to be lighter and more humorous, but the boys didn't want to cooperate. I'll see if I can win against them in the second chapter...
> 
> Tags and rating might change as the story progresses.
> 
> **NEXT:** Lestrade Investigates  
>  How does Lestrade see Sherlock's death? And what exactly does he know about the family? Did Jack and Sherlock have that 'talk'? And how does John come into this equation?


End file.
